


Out of His League

by violentcrumbles



Series: Week of Drabbles [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 06:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentcrumbles/pseuds/violentcrumbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek's going to be the best ballplayer ever, if Stiles doesn't kill him first. Or vice versa.</p><p>In which Stiles is a personal trainer, and Derek is the shortstop for the LA Dodgers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Band is Playing Somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> In which I tried for a drabble, and ended up with a love letter to baseball.
> 
> And no one is surprised. 
> 
> Thanks to the lovely sunsetpanic for betaing this for me, all remaining mistakes are my own.  
> 
> Disclaimer: I do love baseball, but know very little about the business side of it. Ie. nothing. So if you catch any glaring mistakes, please let me know.
> 
> All remaining notes after the last chapter.

***

CBSSports.com  
Arizona Diamondbacks @ Los Angeles Dodgers  
1-6

Injuries:  
08/14/12 Derek Hale SS Knee 60-Day DL. Out for season.

***

 

January 4, 2013

“Oh, Derek, wonderful! Have a seat.” Derek’s boss, manager for the Los Angeles Dodgers, and all-round hardass Erica Reyes motioned to a deceptively small chair in front of her expansive desk. 

Derek walked over, careful to suppress the flinch from the twinge in his left knee and sat carefully. 

“Now,” Erica said, coming around to sit on the desk in front of him. She crossed one knee carefully over the other. Derek’s kept his gaze on hers the whole time. Her Basic Instinct trick hadn’t thrown him off when she signed him, and it couldn’t faze him now, with six years under his belt. 

He’d be a little more comfortable though if his contract for the next few seasons was a little more solid. 

“Derek, I spoke to Boyd yesterday. He had some concerns.”

She paused, and Derek knew he wasn’t going to like what came next. “Boyd doesn’t think you’ll be ready to put back on the roster at this rate.”

Derek growled, but Erica continued unfazed. “Don’t give me that. Boyd’s an excellent physical therapist and you know it. And it’s not as dire as it sounds, he just thinks you need some additional personal training.”

“I do fine.”

“Oh, it speaks, goody.” Erica arched an elegantly plucked eyebrow at him. “He recommended a place downtown. Very chic, expensive as hell, but he swears by it.”

Derek raised a far less-polished eyebrow back. “I’m fine. My knee’s fine. I just need to work on my strength.”

“Which is why I’m sending you to a trainer.” Erica jumped down gracefully and crossed back behind her desk. “I’m so glad we agree.”

She waved a hand imperiously at him, already pulling up new files and stats on her computer. “Have Isaac give you the details on your way out. And Derek,” she called as he rose and turned to leave. She looked almost worried, “I will know if you skip any appointments. So please, don’t give me any reasons to have to bump you down to the minors?”

Derek walked out without looking back.

 

***

That afternoon, Derek parked in front of the address Isaac had given him. He walked into the gleaming glass and concrete building with his appointment slip clutched in his fist. The hell did Erica think she was doing? _He_ knew he was fine to play. And any…softness he might have developed while laid up in the off-season he could easily burn off in spring training. 

He looked around. At least this place seemed to know what they were doing. Everyone else in there looked _sculpted_. Toned . Ripped. Derek took a moment to appreciate.

“Can I help you?” 

Derek turned. Behind the front desk was stood someone who did _not_ blend in with the rest of the crowd. He was about Derek’s height, maybe a little shorter with his close cropped hair, not fashionably styled like everyone else’s. He was pale too, and freckled in comparison to the uniform army of cheeto-tans around him. Most different though, was the fact that rather than the massive walls of human muscle that were every other man in the gym, this guy was slim to the point of being almost wiry. Derek thought he could probably wrap his whole hand around the guy’s bicep. If he wanted to. 

“Yeah,” said Derek angrily. Flashy environment or no, he was still pissed that they didn’t think he could handle getting back in shape with the rest of the team and foisted him off on this rich kid day care. “I’m here to meet a…” he squinted at Isaac’s handwriting. “A..Gen..Jeq…Something Stilinski.”

The guy smiled broadly. Derek pointedly didn’t notice how it lit up his eyes.

“That’s me! Call me Stiles!”

“ _You’re_ my trainer?” 

Stiles’ face fell. “Well, don’t sound so excited,” he snapped. “Look, my buddy Boyd called and asked, nigh on begged, me to take on a friend of his. Now I may owe him one but I gave up _two_ good regulars for you. So now are you going to work with me or aren’t you?”

“Fine.” Derek said. “Whatever.”

“Great,” said Stiles sarcastically. “Let’s go get your base measurements.” 

***

The guy, _Stiles_ was cool but professional after that. Having Derek do the usual, toe touches, push ups per minute, chin ups, etc. and recording all the data down on a little electronic notepad. 

“Not bad,” he said as Derek lay panting on his back after the sit ups test. He’d done almost fifteen fewer in a minute than he’d been able to before he was injured. 

“Do you have any specific areas you’d like to work on?”

“Speed,” said Derek automatically. “Upper body strength, arms especially.”

“Ok,” Stiles said, jotting it all down, “Any injuries I should know about?”

Derek paused. His knee was already starting to ache from being bent in the sit up position, but he didn’t really want to mention it. That said, if he didn’t, and let the guy push him too hard, it could be his career.

“Knee,” he gritted out. “Left. Had to have some surgeries, but it’s fine now.”

“Really?” Stiles seemed almost surprised. “Hey, that’s awesome!” 

At Derek’s look, the enthusiasm slid off his face and he went back into rote professionalism. “Now, we’re gonna see the best results if we give ourselves a goal. I’ve got you booked five days a week, first thing in the morning, so we can be pretty optimistic. What do you say, twenty more sit ups, five seconds off sprints, ten more push ups, and six pack abs in three months?”

“By March 31st. And I don’t need the six pack.”

Stiles laughed, excitement bubbling back in an instant, like it was against his nature to be anything else. “Specific. I like it. And don’t worry,” he winked, “the abs are a freebie. Consider them my gift.”

***

Derek could barely hobble his way from his garage to his kitchen that night. He pulled everything frozen he could carry out of the freezer and lay down on his bed. Ice packs for his shoulders, chest, frozen peas on his knee, his quads, his everywhere. Jesus. Derek had no idea how that scrawny little thing had worked him so hard. 

His phone pinged and he groaned, slowly shifting to slide it tenderly out of his back pocket.

_Gr8 warm up session! Real work starts tomorrow! see you @ 6 ;)  
-S_

Derek groaned again. He was going to kill Stiles.

Or Erica. 

Or Boyd. Maybe all three. First though, he was going to try to figure out how to take off his shoes without moving _anything._


	2. Short’s the best hey is.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, I don’t think so, buddy.” Stiles grabbed the coffee out of Derek’s hands.
> 
> Derek blinked at him. Men had been killed for less.

***

February 2013

***

"I... hate you... Gonna... kill you."

"Yeah, yeah, finish two more sets first."

"I swear...rip throat out...with teeth."

"Promises, promises."

***

“Goooooood Morning, DEREK!!!”

Derek grunted over his coffee as he walked into the nearly deserted gym.

“Did you do those stretches before coming in like I told you?”

Derek grunted again. Why in God’s name did he have to have his sessions with Stiles _before_ practice. Spring training had already been underway for a week and a half, but he still hadn’t gotten used to having to go straight to practice after Stiles’ sessions, rather than just driving home and collapsing in bed for another couple of hours. He raised his paper cup of coffee. At least Starbucks could deaden the pain.

“Oh, I don’t think so, buddy.” Stiles grabbed the coffee out of Derek’s hands.

Derek blinked at him. Men had been killed for less.

Stiles sniffed it, “Oh hey, hazelnut.” He took a sip. Of _Derek’s_ coffee. Stiles stuck out his tongue and made a face. “Oh gross, that’s even more sugar than _I_ like. And I’m totally a rip-open-a-handful-of-paper-packets-ask-questions-later kind of guy.”

Then he threw Derek’s coffee in the trash.

He threw Derek’s coffee in the trash.

Derek stared at him, pole-axed. Stiles laughed and threw a bottle of something green at him. Derek only caught it out of professional instinct.

“Wheatgrass,” said Stiles. “It’s your new coffee. It’s super-good for you. Vitamins and proteins. Everything a growing boy needs.” He smiled, “Go on, take a sip.”

Derek snarled, but uncapped the bottle. The liquid inside moved thickly. It looked like there were chunks in it. He looked over at Stiles, to see if this was some kind of joke, but Stiles just looked back with big eyes and an over-the-top puppy dog expression.

“For me? Pleeeeeeeease?” Stiles begged.

Derek took a sip. It was thick _and_ chunky and smelled like lawnmower clippings. It was… not horrible. He lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“S’okay.”

He raised the bottle again, might as well finish it before they got started.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stiles throw his hands in the air, “The wheatgrass is going, going, going, gone! And the crowd goes wild!”

Derek finished the last of the wheatgrass and narrowed his eyes, Stiles didn’t mean anything by that did he? No, it was just something people said. If he’d figured out Derek was in baseball he’d have brought it up by now.

Lord knows he’d tried to talk to Derek about every other topic in the world. He’d only been training with Stiles for a few weeks, but he already knew the guy’s thoughts on movies, politics, Vietnamese food, which flavors of mint were superior to others, his favorite pets growing up, why hamburgers tasted better when eaten upside down and that he was an incredibly annoying morning person.

“Alright, big guy, that’s enough hippie juice. C’mon, we just got in some new tricep machines and I need you to be my guinea pig.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Stiles’ grin was mischievous, “’Big guy’ or ‘guinea pig’?”

“Neither.”

Stiles pouted, “Fine, spoil my fun. Let’s go Sourpants.”

***

The next morning when Derek walked in, there was a half empty bottle of the green stuff sticking out of the side of his bag.

For once in his life, Stiles hadn’t said anything. But the look on his face made Derek stop in his tracks. Stiles just looked so unequivocally happy.

Someone happy. To see Derek. In the morning. None of those things went together. It was blue moon levels of rare.

Stiles smiled with his whole face, eyes crinkling and nose scrunching. If Derek allowed himself to think such things, he might have thought it was breath-taking.

“Shut up,” he said instead.

***

"So, why don't you look like that?" Derek asked. He tilted his head back and squeezed his water bottle. It was a few weeks later. He was sitting on the floor of the gym, enjoying a-very exact- ninety second break after another one of Stile's damned plank marathons. Derek could stand up if he wanted to. Really.

Stiles looked at him quizzically.

"You know," Derek gestured, "like everyone else in here."

"Oh, you mean the meat-on-a-sticks?"

Derek smiled. He couldn't help it. He found himself doing that a lot more around Stiles lately.

"Exactly."

Stiles batted his eyelashes, "Are you saying I'm losing my girlish figure? Or is it a self-defense thing, like you’re afraid if one of them trips over a steroided-out toe I’ll be crushed like Wile E. Coyote under an anvil? Aw, you care! I’m touched. Or maybe it’s a gothic novel type thing; I’ll get depressed from being constantly unable to lift a motorcycle covered in cheerleaders over my head and waste away in the tower, then hurl myself from the widow’s walk in a fit of despair."

“Are there a lot of motorcycle and cheerleaders in gothic novels? Bronte was really holding out on me.”

“Ooh, literary references. Brains and brawn. I may swoon.”

Derek rolled his eyes and reached for his towel. He knew Stiles’ teasing was just that, _teasing_ but it still felt kind of nice to play along. Besides, maybe if he could distract Stiles by talking enough, he’d get a few more seconds rest.

"I am also a man of mystery,” Derek deadpanned. “You know what I mean though.”

“About me looking like a stick insect?”

“Don’t be stupid, you have a great body,” Derek froze. That was not _at all_ what he meant to say. He tried to push past it. “It’s just, you’re not bulky and covered in muscle like all the other guys in here--wouldn't that be better for business? Being your own billboard?"

Stiles looked at Derek for a long moment.

“What?” asked Derek.

“Nothing, just. One: Think about how that sounded and you’ll kind of have your own answer. And Two: When you first started I told you I could give you six pack abs and you didn’t care. I thought you understood.

Stiles said softly “I like my body the way it is. I’m healthy, I’m strong, I can live my life the way I want to and do all the things I love. That’s what matters.”

Stiles went quiet after that. Derek knew he should say something, but he had no idea what. Before he could speak, Stiles shook himself.

“Okay, that’s cheating! I totally know what you’re doing. Get up. I’ve already given you four extra seconds. Hut hut! It’s power rack time!”

Stiles bounced up, and offered a hand down to Derek. Not that he needed the help, but Derek reached up and let Stiles pull him to his feet anyway. He really was strong.

“You did anyway though,” Derek said without thinking, hand still in Stiles’. At Stiles’ questioning look, “Gave me a six-pack.”

Derek reached down with his free hand and pulled up his shirt. Even he had to admit, the results of just a few weeks training with Stiles were pretty phenomenal.

Stiles eyes slid down, before cutting back up to Derek’s with a grin. “Join the club.”

Stiles pulled his shirt up, and yeah, he had a six pack too. Not as hyper-defined as some of the other instructors, but built like the rest of him of long lean muscle that suited his narrow frame perfectly. Derek’s eye though, was caught by the line of dark hair running from just below Stiles’ belly button to disappear underneath the elastic of his basketball shorts.

Derek snapped back. What was he _thinking_. Eyeing up some guy while holding his hand? In public! He stepped back, dropping Stiles hand like it burned him.

“You said power rack?” Derek turned on his heel and headed toward that corner of them gym. He resolutely didn’t look back to see if Stiles was following him. He looked up, and accidentally caught sight of Stiles in one of the gym’s mirrors. Stiles was still standing where Derek had left him. He looked…hurt?

Derek shook his head. That wasn’t his problem.

***

That night, Derek still couldn’t get the wounded look on Stiles' face out of his mind.

Maybe it was all just in Derek's head. Maybe Stiles didn't think about him like that at all. Maybe all the friendly touches and jokes were just that-- _friendly_. But then why had he looked so hurt when Derek had dropped his hand and turned away? Normal guys, _straight_ guys, wouldn't react like that. But a guy who was interested in him? Derek flushed at the thought.

He rolled over his punched the pillow. Stiles’ look didn't mean anything, and even it did--no. He’d thought he could have that before, and look how _that_ had turned out.

When he'd first come out to LA, so excited to be a part of the big leagues, the ink on his contract barely dry, he'd met a beautiful woman outside his very first press conference. Kate. She'd been smart and funny and Derek had fallen for her completely. In bed a few weeks later, when he told her--blushing and faltering--that he thought he liked men too, she kissed him.

“God baby, that’s fine. I’m not mad. If that’s what you want, maybe sometime we can go out and see if we can find someone you like? But only if you want it.”

The next night, she’d taken him to a bar. With Kate on his arm, the bouncer hadn't even bothered to look at Derek's fake ID. He was too nervous to drink the cocktailKate pushed into his hands anyway. After about half an hour of pretending to dance and wondering how you even found out if someone was interested in a threesome, he spotted a guy he liked and the guy smiled back.

“Kate, that guy in the corner? The one in blue? Do you think, you think he might want to?”

Still dancing, Kate looked where Derek was nodding. When she saw the guy, her nose wrinkled.

“No, I don’t think so, babe. Besides, who wears glasses to a club anyway? No, we need to get you someone way hotter for your first time.”

She pulled Derek around, so his back was against her chest. She put an arm over his shoulder and pointed.

“What about him?”

The new guy was tall, built, and gorgeous. Everything about him screamed Hollywood, from his painted-on jeans to his artfully tousled haircut. A haircut Derek was sure cost more than his first car. The one he had _before_ the Dodgers gave him the BMW. The guy saw Kate pointing at him. Before Derek could say anything, she crooked a finger at him. Derek was still growing into himself at that age, and the guy was taller and broader than him. He’d put his hands on Derek’s hips, swaying in time to the music and kissed Kate over Derek’s shoulder.

The three of them had gone back to Kate's apartment.

Derek closed his eyes at the memory. He couldn’t believe he’d ever been that naïve. It had been his first time with a man. And Kate had filmed it.

Derek didn't find _that_ out until later. Not until she'd sent him an email with a clip of it, threatened to turn the whole thing over to his team, the tabloids. Let them all know the new Dodger's Wunderkind, the kid who could knock the ball out of any park in America, the kid who was coming soon to a Wheaties box near you, liked sucking cock. And more. His career would have been over before he even played his first game.

He'd given her half his first year's salary for the video card from that camera. Over a million dollars.

He still worried some nights, nights like this, that she'd kept a copy, but she never contacted him again.

Last he heard, she was dating some rising Hollywood star. Greener pastures, he supposed.

But Stiles wouldn't be like that, would he? No, he couldn't be. Derek wouldn't believe it. Derek had grown up a lot since then, learned to spot the real people from the fakes. Stiles was a good person, he wouldn’t turn on Derek. Wouldn’t try to use their relationship for money.

But even if Stiles wasn't Kate-- _couldn't_ be like Kate--it didn't matter. One photo of them kissing, holding hands, or even just out to dinner and that would be it. Derek was good, but there wasn't a player in the league good enough to beat a gay scandal.

Sure, there'd be some sort of outwardly supportive press release, and awkward silences in the locker room. Maybe a few of the guys would try to pretend that nothing had changed, but that would be even worse than the ones who would wait, glaring, for him to leave before showering. And then in a few months Erica tell him they were worried about his knee blowing out again, that they were bumping him down to the minors for his own health. And when his contract ran out, it would be over. He'd never play baseball again.

And that was what it came down to in the end. Derek loved baseball. Stiles was wonderful; smart,funny, and unwilling to put up with any of Derek's crap, but Derek couldn't risk losing the only thing he loved.

Derek swallowed. His sister and the rest of his family were long dead. Baseball was all he had left of them. Memories of playing catch with his uncles and cousins in the yard, of him and Laura sharing a walkman to listen to late-night games in a pillow fort built between their beds. The look on his mom’s face when he got the MVP trophy from his little league coach.

But maybe now he could have Stiles, too. People did it all the time didn't they, had secret affairs and illicit hook ups?

Derek thought about it, about driving one of his more beat-up cars to some dingy little motel. Some seedy place where you paid in cash and no one ever looked at your face. He thought about meeting Stiles there, the way his pale skin would look in the light of the bedside lamp. How he'd look sprawled across over-bleached sheets. How his hands, strong and long-fingered, would feel on Derek, _in_ Derek.

But keeping him like some dirty little secret? Derek thought about Stiles' bright eyes and easy smiles, his sharp humor and stubborn determination.

Definitely not, Derek would never try to keep all that in the dark. Couldn't imagine hiding Stiles like that. Stiles deserved better. Better than Derek.

Derek threw off the covers and pulled on his jogging shorts. He wasn't going to be sleeping tonight anyway.

***

March 2013

***

"Hello?"

"Derek! Wonderful! I'm fine. You're doing well? Well of course I know, silly! You check in all the time!"

Erica. Derek took his eyes off the road quickly to glance down at his phone. Not her caller ID. Which explains why he didn't hear her personalized "Man Eater" ringtone.

Must be Isaac's phone. What's everyone else is hers after all.

Derek sighed and looked for a good place to pull over. Talks with Erica should never be attempted while doing sixty.

"I didn't check in because I'm fine." The shoulder widened and he pulled over.

“Finstock said you were limping yesterday.”

"And?"

"And? _And_! We’re paying you a ridiculous amount of money to hit, run, and throw a ball. There is not best two-out-of-three option here, honey.”

"Blame Stiles. It's his fault I'm limping."

There was silence on the line.

"And who _exactly_ is Stiles?"

"Jesus, he's my personal trainer! Not ...anything else."

"Mm hm." Derek could actually hear her slipping into her "This notice required by law" voice. "Now Derek, of course MLB has a strict anti-discrimination policy, but you should know that any... extracurricular activities that impact your on field performance will be reflected in future contract negotiations…”

"He's the trainer you sent me to!"

"Great," he voice brightened. "Then tell him to quit it with the lunges and we'll be fine."

Derek rolled his eyes. Good luck with that. He carefully kept from thinking about the sorts of things Erica had insinuated, about _other_ things he could be doing with Stiles that would leave him with a limp.

It took him a moment to realize Erica was still talking.

"Look, Derek. I know you probably think I'm a bitch. But I'm getting a lot of pressure to cut dead weight off the team. And I don't want to give anyone any ammo to say that weight is you, okay? For any reason."

Now she sounded more like the person Derek had first met. Strong and determined to prove wrong everyone who had laughed at a woman in charge of a sports team. Fierce, but with heart enough to take a risk on a kid recruited straight out of high school and to stand by him.

"Thanks, Erica. And I don’t think that about you."

She snorted, “You should, because this bitch is your boss, and if you’re still on the phone with me, it means you’re late for practice.”

With that, she hung up.

***

Saturdays were probably Derek’s favorite mornings to train with Stiles. Most mornings, there would be at least a few people around the gym, people squeezing in a workout before they went to the office, or the set, or just out shopping. But Saturdays seemed to be the unofficial day of rest. Half the gym-goers were still sleeping off a hangover from the night before, and the other half were feeling decadent, staying in bed and cheating their diets with a mimosa or strawberry crepe.

On Saturdays, he and Stiles had the gym all to themselves, which meant Stiles felt free to mess around a little more than usual, doing impressions of his coworkers, and telling ridiculous stories Derek hoped weren’t true about some of crazy rich clients he’d had. Seriously, there was no way Stiles had ever taught a “Pilates for Pomeranians” class.

The gym being deserted also meant Derek had no qualms about telling Stiles what a goddamn fucking sadist he was. Which was just as well, because today Stiles was making him do burpies. Derek’s language tended to get especially creative on burpie days.

“Godmother…fuckagoatpig…shiteating…”

“Annnnnd that’s your break! One last set!”

“Chickenfucker.”

“Aww, you say the sweetest things. Ready? Drop down, push up, jump up, ONE! Drop down, push up, jump up TWO! Drop down, push up, jump up THREE!

Derek made it to “EIGHT”, but when he landed after the eighth jump up, he hit wrong. He heard a slight pop and then his knee was on fire.

Derek fell to the floor, clutching his knee. Stiles was instantly over him.

“Derek!” Derek, are you ok? Oh shit, your knee! Ok, hold still, just breathe. Are you breathing? Breathe for me, Derek.”

Stiles hands were hovering over Derek, flitting from over shoulder to knee, like he wanted to touch, but was afraid of causing Derek any more pain.

“Okay, okay, sit tight. I’m gonna get you some ice okay? Don’t try to move.”

Stiles ran off, and Derek focused on his breathing. Now that the initial pain was past, it wasn’t that bad. He shuffled over and carefully pulled himself up on a weight bench. He bent the knee gingerly. It was sore, but he could still move it, so he probably just overtaxed it, rather than completely fucking it up again. Good thing too, he only had a week until the season opener.

“Derek, where…Dammit I told you not to move. Here, I got the ice, just…” Stiles slid to his knees in front of Derek. He finished wrapping the bag of blue ice in a gym towel.

“I’m just gonna,” he waved a hand between the ice and Derek’s knee. “Okay? Tell me if I hurt you.” He carefully pressed the icepack against Derek’s knee with both hands.

Derek shuddered at the shock of cold. Stiles frowned, and rubbed his thumbs against the skin just under Derek’s knee reassuringly.

“You okay?” Stiles asked. His face was twisted with worry and guilt, and that was it. Derek couldn’t take it anymore.

Derek leaned forward and grabbed Stiles’ face with both hands, tilting him up, and then he was kissing Stiles.

Stiles was frozen against him, but that was alright for the moment because Derek had been thinking about this, about grabbing Stiles and just kissing him. He’d been fighting not to every time Stiles smiled, or laughed, or talked, or just _existed_ it seemed, and enough was enough.

Stiles’ lips were warm and as soft as they looked. Stiles made a noise, almost a squeak, when Derek darted his tongue out to taste them. He grinned against Stiles mouth for just a moment, _Wheatgrass_ before ducking back in for more.

Stiles’ whole body relaxed into the kiss this time, then he surged up, opening his mouth to Derek and fuck, this was better, this was so much better. Derek nipped and bit and Stiles kept making more of those delicious noises. Derek thought he could listen to those forever, wanted to know what other sounds he could get Stiles to make.

He curled his fingers, brushing the edges of Stiles’ ear. Stiles groaned and his hands clenched on Derek’s knee. Pain shot through Derek’s knee at the touch, not as bad as the first time, but enough to make him hiss and back off.

And oh, fuck. Oh fuck. What was he doing?

“Shit, your knee! Sorry, I’m so sorry!” Stiles bobbed down and pressed a quick kiss on the top of Derek’s kneecap. He smiled self-consciously up at Derek, just a little twist of lips that broke Derek’s heart because he couldn’t have this. He was a fool to think otherwise, even for a second.

“There. That’ll make it all better. We should get you to a doctor anyway, just in case the Stilinski magic is a little slow-acting. Is there one you prefer or—“

“I can’t.”

“Derek, we have to take you to a doc—“

“No, I mean, I can’t do this.”

Stile’s face fell, but he his eyes were still determined. “You mean us? Yes, Derek, you can. I know you’re not out and that’s fine, I understand. We can be discreet. Your team will never—“

Derek’s head shot up, “What did you say?”  
“I said, your team will never fi—“

“How did you know I played!” Derek’s mind was racing. Kate had pretended she hadn’t known either. Pretended she just happened to have been walking by the MLB building when she dropped her purse, pretended she had no idea how rich he was, how in the spotlight. But the whole time she had known. Stiles had known too.

“How long have you known?” Derek shouted. Stiles looked scared and taken aback, hands still around Derek’s knee.

“You…you thought I didn’t know who you were?” Stiles said quietly. “You thought you were keeping that from me? Wh…Derek I’ve known since the first time you walked through that door.”

Derek’s blood went cold, “Get out.”

“ _What?_

“I said get out.”

Stiles looked angry now. “You’re telling me to get out of my own gym because I know who you are? Jesus, Derek, of course I know who you are! Even if Boyd hadn’t told me you were coming, I would have recognized you the moment I saw you. The Dodgers are my team! I’ve got their baseball cards going back to when I was a kid! I have a baseline seat right next to the dugout. Do you have any idea how much of my paycheck goes into that?”

His voice softened, “I was there your first night in the Majors. When you hit that grand slam against Colorado your first at bat? Derek! That was a baseball record; of course I know who you are. I have your damn rookie card!”

Stiles pushed away from Derek and stood. The icepack fell to the ground. Stiles instinctively moved to pick it up, then stopped and ran a hand over the back of his head instead.

He sighed, “I had your rookie card on me the first day you came in. I was hoping I could figure out a non-creepy way to ask you to sign it, but you were just so… you. So grouchy and stand off-ish, and the first thing you said to me was a put down.”

Stiles shrugged, “I thought…Never mind.”

He turned his back and let out a long breath. “You don’t really need these sessions any more. Your team practices should be enough to keep you in shape. Call the desk if you want any more training. Just, just not with me.”

Stiles didn’t move. He didn’t walk away, but he didn’t look back at Derek either. Eventually, Derek carefully pulled himself to his feet, and began to limp towards the door.

“Good luck next week.” Derek heard softly from behind him, “I’ll still be rooting for you.”

 

***


	3. Bases Loaded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Big Game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note, If you're not very familiar with baseball, you might want to have this handy.

***  
March 31st, 2013  
Opening day of MLB season  
San Diego Padres @ Los Angeles Dodgers

“Hey, Hale. What crawled up your ass and died?”

“Fuck off, Whittemore.”

Jackson laughed and pulled on his jersey. “C’mon now, smile. It’s a beautiful day for baseball!”

Jackson was an asshole, but even Derek had to admit the guy was good--decent batting average, great speed, and could make an out at first and throw to third before the runner could even blink.

Jackson certainly didn’t have to worry about _his_ contract. 

The team was in the “Home” locker room, waiting to take the field for the first game of the season. Some of the guys were joking and messing around; the superstitious (which meant most of the team) were busy kissing lucky rabbit’s feet, or turning their socks inside out, or in the case of McCall--center field—doing some strange sort of rain dance that involved more gyrating than Derek was frankly comfortable with.

“Alright, men,” Head Coach Finstock clapped his hands and walked into the locker room. He was wearing a jacket in Notre Dame colors with a leprechaun on the back. So the inspirational theme of this year was going to be _Rudy_. Great. Well, it could be worse; the great _300_ debacle of ’09 was something Derek tried very hard to repress. 

“Okay,” Finstock continued. “I know it’s the first game of the season, but that makes it the most important game of the season. There has been no game before it. It’s the _only_ one there is. The very course of the rest of the season, nay our very _lives_ will be decided out there today. So don’t blow it! How we start the season is how everyone expects us to do the rest of the season, and I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t want to spend the season as _losers_! But hey, what’s important is that we all have a good time, right? WRONG! Now go out there and kick some Padre ass!”

Finstock raised a fist in the air, and most of the team cheered. It was easier to just play along. This _was_ one of his better speeches though: he actually remembered the name of the team they were playing against this time. 

Derek grabbed his glove out of his locker and gave his cell phone one last look before shutting it inside. Stiles had made it pretty clear he wanted nothing to do with Derek, and that was for the best. No matter how much the thought felt like a sawblade in his gut, Derek had made the right choice. Still, he had hoped for something. Not even a call, just maybe a ‘good luck’ text or emoticon, anything. There were fourteen drafts of an apology text saved on his phone. All unsent. It really had been better to stop this…thing he felt before it had a chance to become something. 

Maybe if Derek told himself that enough, he’d actually believe it. 

***

The crowd roared as they took the field. It really was a beautiful day for a game—not a cloud in the sky, the chill of winter melting away, but not quite hot enough yet to make the game the ordeal it would be come July and August. 

Tossing the ball around the infield while the announcer shouted the Padres’ lineup, Derek had to focus to keep his eyes on the field. They kept wanting to stray over Jackson’s shoulder to look into the seats along the first baseline. Opening game, the seats were packed with diehard fans, but even still Derek was sure he’d be able to spot one closely shorn head if he just looked hard enough… He spun around and snapped the ball over to Greenburg on third. 

“Focus, Derek,” he growled to himself. “Eye on the ball.”

***

The first few innings weren’t particularly exciting one way or the other. Derek struck out his first at bat, but Greenburg had managed to get on base and Jackson drove him in with a double, scoring them a run. In the next inning, one of the Padres, some new kid from Nicaragua Derek didn’t recognize, hit a home run, bringing in the batter ahead of him as well, taking the score to 2-1 against the Dodgers. 

Derek struck out again his next at bat, and while he made a few good assists, he was getting nervous. 

At the top of the sixth, he slid to get a runner out at second. His knee spiked with pain. He gasped, but held onto the ball. It didn’t matter, the runner made it to the base first and was safe. Derek couldn’t help the groan as he stood, but forced himself to jog back closer to third, gritting his teeth with every step to keep from showing that he’d been injured again. 

As Derek walked back to the dugout after striking out again in the next inning, he saw Finstock watching him with a worried expression as he talked to someone on the phone. Derek glanced up at the shining glass of the executive box suites. Somewhere up there, Erica and the board were watching. He had a pretty good idea what they were saying too. Still, he had two more innings. That meant two more chances to redeem himself. 

***

It was down to the bottom of the ninth. The Padres had rallied in the eighth, hitting run after run, and were now leading the game by three runs. Derek hadn’t had another chance at bat yet, and while he hadn’t made any errors and had even assisted on an out at first, he knew it wasn’t going to be enough to save his career if it came down to it. To make matters worse, his knee was throbbing, and he wasn’t sure he could sprint to base even if he did get a chance to hit the ball. 

The last inning, and Derek’s last chance. He was on deck warming up to swing as he watched McCall at bat. Greenburg and other player were already out, Jackson and their right fielder had made it to base. The Padres pitcher glanced over at Derek, then made a flurry of signs at the catcher. The catcher nodded, then stepped outside the strike zone. The pitcher made slow easy tosses to the catcher, and the crowd booed. 

Derek’s cheeks burned. McCall had been hitting pretty well most of the game. Derek had struck out every single time. The pitcher had decided to walk McCall so that he wouldn’t have to worry about him getting a run, and pitch to Derek instead. 

The move was not a surprising one, but humiliating for Derek nonetheless. With a player now on every base, and two outs, the Padres could make an out at any base and win the game. They assumed Derek would fail. And even if by some miracle Derek managed to hit a single or even a double, they’d still be up two or one runs respectively, and have plenty of opportunities to get an out before the Dodgers could tie, or pull ahead. 

Derek’s heart sunk. It was even worse than that. He didn’t have a chance. The pitcher didn’t know Derek was injured. Even if Derek hit the ball, he knew he’d never be able to get to first base fast enough to be safe. 

The umpire called a walk. McCall shrugged and gave Derek a thumbs up as he jogged to first. 

Derek slid the weights off his bat and walked towards home plate. He could hear the cries of the crowd around him, the blasting bass of his walk-on music as it blared over the speakers, but it all faded into a rush in the background. He was aware of his heartbeat, and the crunch of red clay beneath his soles. He stepped over home plate to get to the right-handed batters’ side of the box. He swung the bat heavily back and forth, adjusting his stance. Then he raised the bat to his shoulder, and for the first time the entire game, allowed his eyes to roam the baseline seats. 

But there was nothing to see. He turned, about to face the pitcher, when a jerky movement caught the corner of his eye. Something about it seemed familiar. He looked more closely, and there it was again, just a dozen seats down from the home dugout. 

There was Stiles. 

Stiles was on his feet, waving and clapping. Derek couldn’t hear him—couldn’t hear him over his heartbeat, and the music, and the crowd—but Stiles’ eyes locked with his, and Stiles _smiled_. 

In that moment, there was no pitcher, no Dodgers, no crowd, just Derek, ready to play baseball and Stiles, smiling. 

Derek stepped backwards out of the batter’s box. The umpire held up a hand to pause the pitcher. 

And that was really what it came down to, wasn’t it?. Derek had done everything for the team, stayed loyal for six years of contract negotiations, politics, uncertainty. Had given up his time, friends, life, had hidden who he really was, but for what? It wasn’t the fame he loved, or the money, it was baseball, it was the _game_. Let them kick him off the team, bump him down to the minors, fire him entirely. It didn’t matter. Derek could play pickup in a field and be happy. 

Resolved, Derek stepped back up to the plate. Forget the rest of it, _this_ was what he loved, the one thing that made all the rest of it worth it—staring down the pitcher, waiting, tensed, then the moment of calm as the ball was released, flew true. Derek swung. As his arms came around, he thought maybe that wasn’t quite right. Maybe there was something else he loved as well. Someone. 

The ball connected with a crack that reverberated through the stadium. It flew high and long, dead center. Derek started to jog slowly towards first base. The Padres’ centerfielder booked it toward the back wall. Derek watched the ball arc and slowly start to descend. The other runners began to tear around the bases but Derek had no reason to rush. One way or another, the game was already over. 

The centerfielder hit the back wall and leapt. But the ball was gone. It soared into the stands and was pounced on by excited fans. 

It was over. Derek had hit a grand slam. He’d won the game. 

For the first time in over a week, he smiled. The crowd was screaming, fireworks were shooting from the top of the Jumbotron. As he rounded third, his knee hurt too much to even jog, and he walked the last few feet to home plate. The second he touched the base, the other Dodgers were pouring out of the dugout, hugging him and patting him on the back. They nearly crushed him in their joyous rush, but Derek kept moving. 

They parted just enough for him to squeeze out, and Derek kept going, walking steadily towards the stands. Ahead of him, fans cheered and reached out, waving and yelling. But Derek didn’t see any of that. He just saw Stiles, leaning on the low wall to the field, still smiling. Stiles wasn’t yelling or cheering or rambling with the rest of the crowd, just smiling with his whole face, eyes crinkled and happy, and Derek couldn’t help it. 

He reached forward and pulled Stiles into a kiss. He grasped at him, running fingers through stubbled hair and down the back of his neck as his lips pressed and nipped against Stiles’. Stiles responded immediately, sighing into the kiss then pulling himself even closer to Derek, half over the wall to force Derek’s mouth open with tongue and teeth, kissing him with a passion that Derek had never even thought of before. 

Finally Stiles pulled back with a gasp. He didn’t go far, forehead still touching Derek’s. He looked into Derek’s eyes, still grinning, and Derek grinned back.

“I’m an idiot,” Derek said.

Stiles laughed, and the sounds around them slowly started to filter back in. The mass of the crowd was still mostly indistinguishable, but Derek could hear boos. He clenched his hands tighter in Stiles’ shirt. The boos weren’t it though, Derek could also hear clapping and cheering, wolf whistles and cat calls. 

Stiles pressed a light kiss against the corner of his mouth. “Hey, from now on though, you’re _my_ idiot, right?” His smile didn’t falter but his eyes looked uncertain. 

“Right.” Derek nodded. And it felt like he was saying so much more than that one simple word.

“Excuse me, sir.” Derek heard a voice from behind him, and turned just enough to see one of the members of field security standing by his shoulder. “Ms. Reyes says you’re needed at the press conference, sir.” The guard’s lips quirked, Derek thought her actual message probably contained a bit more profanity. “Would you like me to escort your friend to the guest lounge?”

Derek turned back to Stiles, “Stiles, I… I mean, will you…?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Of course I will. Now go.” 

Derek pulled him in for another hard kiss. 

“Mmph!” Stiles whacked Derek’s chest when they came up for air. “Shoo, don’t keep the adoring masses waiting. Go.”

Derek slowly let go of Stiles and turned back toward the dugout. He squared his shoulders. He has kissed Stiles in front of God, the Jumbotron, fifty thousand fans, and every major sports camera on the coast. He could do this. 

***

The press conference passed in a blur. Cameras were rolling, questions were shouted. Most of the questions Erica jumped in on, answering with a professional smile and empty platitudes. The rest, Finstock barged in on with unfettered enthusiasm. He did seem confused though when anyone asked a question not directly related to the game. Derek figured Finstock was either the only one there who didn’t care one way or the other about Derek’s celebratory gay make-out session, or more likely, he was the only one who hadn’t noticed. 

The few remaining questions that filtered through to Derek, regardless of whether they were thinly veiled interrogations about his personal life, or openly honest ones about his winning hit, he answered the same way.

“I’m just here to play baseball.”

The hoarde of reporters seemed to grow restless with his non-answers until one of them just asked outright, “Hale! What’s your relationship with the man we saw? Who _is_ he?”

Derek paused, it might be too late to keep Stiles out of the spotlight, he had kissed him on national tv after all, but that didn’t give Derek the right to drag his name into it without his permission. But Stiles deserved more than to be just another non-answer. 

Derek smiled and leaned in towards the microphones, “I can honestly say that I couldn’t have done what I did out there today—any of it--without him.”

“Further comments will be forthcoming in the official press release!” Erica yelled over the ensuing cacophony of follow up questions while Finstock bellowed about how Derek’s valiant domination truly embodied the direction of the team this season. 

Derek wasn’t entirely sure which of them was talking about the game and which was talking about Stiles. 

***

Half an hour later, Derek was finally free. He rushed from the conference room to the guest lounge without even stopping by the locker room to change. He was still in his uniform, covered in the dirt and sweat and triumph of the game, and couldn’t wait an extra minute to find Stiles.

He strode through the halls as quickly as he could go. Somewhere in the building, his future in professional baseball was being decided. One magnificent win versus the shitstorm and revenue loss of a having a gay player. But Derek didn’t care. They might be deciding his future in the majors, but nothing could take his future with baseball, he knew in one form or another, that would be with him forever. As for the rest of his future, well, he was at the door to that.

***  
Derek burst into the lounge and there was Stiles, tennis-shoed feet kicked up on the wide leather sofa in front of a huge flat screen tv. His nose was sunburned slightly pink and his hair was twisted into little spikes with sweat. Derek had never seen anyone more beautiful.

“Hey,” Stiles said, waving the TV remote at Derek. “Saw your conference.” He looked away, “You didn’t have to give me _all_ the credit you know. I seemed to remember you being involved somehow.”

He startled and turned back to Derek, flush rising up to his cheeks from the collar of his shirt. Derek wondered how far down it went. 

“I meant, with winning the game!” Stiles babbled, free hand flailing between them. “Well, I guess the other thing too, obviously. It takes two to make out in front of the entire Dodgers’ stadium and ESPN. At least in my experience, which you know, only had the chance to test the theory once, but I’m not exactly sure how you’d...”

Derek couldn’t believe he’d ever thought he could live without this, without this man. But as much as Derek wanted to kiss the words out of Stiles’ mouth, he had something else he had to do first. He reached back and clicked the lock behind him. The last thing he wanted was someone to interrupt what he had to say. 

“I’m sorry.”

That stopped Stiles mid-word. Derek continued, “I’m sorry I was such an ass. I was… afraid and I lashed out you because of it. And that’s not an excuse, and I am so so sorry.”

Stiles stared at Derek for a long minute then rolled his eyes. “Derek. I knew you were an ass the day we met. This is not new information. Now get over here and start making it up to me.”

Derek’s brow wrinkled in confusion, “But…all the things I said? I yelled at you.”

Stiles sighed. “Fine. I am very disappointed with you and will express this displeasure in a thoroughly creative way later. Now get your ass-y ass over here and kiss me again!”

Derek felt the weight of the last week, last few months, last years, lift off his shoulders as he walked toward Stiles on the couch, but as he got closer, the smile dropped off Stiles’ face. 

“Derek!” Stiles shouted, “Oh my god, you really are a moron. Did you not get anyone to look at your knee? Jesus Christ, I could see you hobbling your way around from the seats. No, no kissing. Bad, Derek! Sit. Ice.”

Stiles sat Derek down firmly on the couch with a hand on each shoulder then left to get ice and a towel from the mini-bar. Derek leaned over and carefully pulled his pants up over his throbbing knee. Funny how he hadn’t noticed that until Stiles pointed it out. Derek wore his uniform the traditional way, with the pants cropped over a high sock just below the knee, so it was easy to pull the hem of his pants up and sock down to expose the aching joint. 

Stiles came back and knelt before Derek, pressing the ice gently to his knee.

“This seems familiar,” Stiles laughed sadly. “It didn’t really end so well last time though.”

“Stiles,” Derek said thickly. “I’ll never do that again.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Derek looked down at Stiles. The moment felt huge, but Derek couldn’t do anything except stare into Stiles’ brown eyes and wait.

“In that case,” said Stiles. “Let’s try this again.”

He leaned up as Derek bent down. Their mouths met in a kiss that was heartbreakingly sweet at first, then grew heated with pent up longing. Derek groaned as Stiles’ tongue pressed against his, tangling for a moment, then relenting, letting Stiles do whatever the hell he wanted as long as it was more. Stiles let out a pleased hum, and nipped Derek’s lower lip, worrying it between his teeth. 

Derek took the opportunity to put his hands on Stiles’ hips, rubbing slowly up his sides under his shirt to feel the warm lean muscle there. He nipped back at Stiles, teeth snapping in front of Stiles’ nose. Stiles made another happy little noise and stood, the ice pack dropping from his hands, to kneel on the couch, settling himself gently over Derek’s thighs.

His long, graceful hands—and fuck, Derek had had dreams about those hands—slowly unbuttoned Derek’s jersey. Derek gasped each time ice cold fingers brushed against his skin.

“Kinky,” said Stiles into Derek’s neck, his eyelashes dark against his cheeks as he watched what he was doing. “You, all hot and dirty getting stripped out of your uniform like this. It’s like the start to porn, really, really, _really_ , good porn.”

Derek growled and squeezed Stiles’ ass though his jeans.

“Oh,” Stiles groaned, as he pulled Derek’s jersey free of his pants. “Oh, please _please_ tell me you’re wearing a jockstrap. God, that would be…” He whimpered, shifting forward, and ground down on Derek’s lap. 

Derek snarled, the sensation lost to him because of the protective cup he wore under his uniform. 

Stiles giggled, “Guess that answers that. Unless you’re just reeeeeeally happy to see me.”

Derek rolled his eyes and used the momentary distraction to pull off Stiles’ t-shirt. Tossing the shirt to land forgotten in a corner, he ran his hands down across the firm sweep of Stiles’ chest. He paused to play with one tight pink nipple, already pebbled in the chill of the overly air-conditioned room, then the other. Stiles whimpered again as Derek pinched and teased, hips arcing in little jerks. He clutched at Derek’s back under the still on, but unbuttoned jersey, fingers tensing and relaxing instinctively. 

Derek thought he could do that all day, listening as Stiles rocked and whined in his lap. But there were so many other things he wanted to do first. His hands drifted back down to Stiles’ jeans. He gave Stiles another quick squeeze through the denim.

“Fuck, Derek! Just fuck.”

The zipper on Stiles’ fly hissed as it went down. Derek pulled the elastic of Stiles’ briefs down with it, freeing Stiles cock. Stiles panted and ground down again. Derek couldn’t feel the sensations of Stiles grinding down, just the ghost of it, but it was already enough to make his atheletic cup _extremely_ uncomfortable. First things first though. Derek wrapped a hand around Stiles’ cock.

He pulled gently, firmly, reveling in the silky-soft heat of Stiles skin, the slight rasp of hair against his fist as it slid back down to Stiles’ base. Derek moved his free hand to slip down the back of Stiles’ pants to grab one high, tight buttock. Stiles keened, and a bead of precum slid from his tip.

“God, Stiles,” Derek moaned and Stiles shuddered against him. ‘Wanna, wanna taste you.” Derek moved to set Stiles on the couch, to slide down and kneel.

“Derek! No!” 

Stiles gripped Derek’s arms tightly to stop him from moving. His eyes were glazed. He shook his head emphatically. “No, I want, Jesus Derek, yes, I want. Just mean, knee, your knee. No knee-ling.”

Derek was struck dumb. Stiles cared so much, cared for _him_ so much that he could remember Derek was hurt at a time like this? Derek could barely remember his own name. 

“Here, like this.” Stiles manhandled Derek until he was upright on the sofa again, but leaning back deeply into the pillows. Then, still straddling Derek’s lap, he gripped the back of the sofa either side of Derek’s head and rose up on his knees. The change in position brought his cock right up to Derek’s mouth. Derek had only done this once before, and he shook his head to expel those memories. They didn’t belong here.

“Der?” Stiles murmured, looking down at him. “You okay? We don’t have to.”

And that was it. Stiles would never try to push him into anything he didn’t want. Push him to become stronger, tougher, better, yes. But never into anything that would hurt him.

“Want to.” Derek croaked, fighting to keep the emotion out of his voice. “I want to, Stiles.”

Stiles nodded, and Derek took that as his cue to continue. He licked his lips, the back of his tongue brushing Stiles’ cock. Stiles moaned as Derek took him in hand again, guiding him into his lips. 

Stiles groaned and his arms trembled, still gripped tightly on the sofa back, but he held still, giving Derek time to explore. It was amazing. The weight of Stiles on his tongue, the heat of him. Derek pressed a little further forward. He couldn’t take in much of Stiles, hand still covering the rest of his cock, but maybe with practice? Derek moaned at the thought. 

“Fuck, Derek!” Stiles jerked at the vibrations. Derek moaned again just to see his reaction. “Oh fuck, fuck,” Stiles said, “I’m gonna move, just a little, okay? Please, gotta, stop me if..” Stiles trailed off as he pressed slowly into Dereks mouth, just a little like he’d said, then rocked back.

Derek looked up, to see Stiles watching him, eyes half lidded in pleasure. He rocked forward again and Derek had a wicked idea. He moved the hand not holding Stiles’ cock up to his own mouth, and when Stiles pushed in again, slid a finger in with it, getting it slick and wet with his own saliva and Stiles’ precum. 

Stiles seemed to figure out what he was doing, and a gave another, less controlled jerk. Derek pulled the finger out and brought it around to brush against Stiles’ entrance. 

“Please, please, Derek, wanna feel you in me.” Derek scratched the tight muscle lightly with his fingernail and grinned as best he could when Stiles shuddered against him. “Dammit, Der! No teasing! Please!”

Derek relented and pressed in lightly, Stiles keened and picked up the pace, moving more quickly between Derek’s mouth and his finger, as if he couldn’t decide which he wanted more. 

“After, after,” Stiles panted, thrusting into Derek’s mouth, “Brought things, s-supplies. After, want you, fuck…Derek? Want you to fuck me.”

Derek groaned and that was all Stiles needed, bucking once, twice, before spilling into Derek’s mouth. The bitter flavor exploded across his tongue and Derek pulled back coughing. Stiles was still coming and it spilled down Derek’s chin onto his chest. 

Stiles arms finally gave out and he collapsed down onto Derek. Derek wrapped his arms around him to keep him from sliding off, and kissed Stiles’ hair, his ears, his forehead, any parts that Derek could reach. 

After a few minutes, Stiles started to stir. “That was amazing. You’re amazing, Der.” He kissed Derek on the chin, then stopped to lap up his own come. Derek threw his head back and shivered.

“Mm,” said Stiles. “Lay down. Not done with you.” 

Derek tilted to the side until he was lying lengthwise on the couch. Stiles followed him, moving down to lick his come off Derek’s chest. Derek groaned. He had never felt so dirty, so decadent. There he was, lying on a leather sofa in the guest lounge at Dodger Stadium, while his _lover_ licked come off his chest. Christ, he was still in his uniform!

Derek was shocked out of his thoughts by the sharp sensation of teeth on his nipple. He gasped; it felt like there was a bolt of lightning running straight from Stiles’ mouth to Derek’s cock, still trapped in its painful prison. Stiles hummed then went back to teasing, kitten soft laps.

“Stiiiiiiiiiles!”

Stiles laid his head on Derek’s chest and grinned up at him. Derek couldn’t fight the urge to bring a hand up to stroke though Stiles’ hair, so he didn’t. Stiles closed his eyes as Derek reveled in the feel of soft strands against his palm. Stiles own hand reached down, and he began to caress Derek’s stomach.

“Stoppit, Derek.” Stiles slurred. “Gonna fall asleep before you get to come.” His finger traced the ridge down the center of Derek’s stomach. 

Derek grinned, “I thought you didn’t care about six pack abs?”

“Not on me, I don’t. Now hold still, I wanna taste ‘em.”

Stiles leaned down, and true to his word, licked his way across Derek’s trembling abs as his clever fingers undid Derek’s belt and fly. He sat back and carefully pulled the pants and jock strap down Derek’s thighs, careful not to put any extra pressure on his knee. Derek groaned in relief as he was freed.

Stiles just looked at him for a long time. By the hunger in his eyes, Derek could imagine what he saw: Derek, laid out on the couch, jersey open and twisted behind his shoulder, pants pulled down, exposing him to mid thigh. He felt like a buffet, and Stiles looked starving. Stiles’ cock was already hard again, and smeared wetly against his stomach.

“Beautiful,” Stiles murmured. Then he was throwing himself back, kicking off his shoes and socks. Wriggling out of his jeans and digging through his pockets. 

“Aha!” he cried joyfully. “Success!” In his hand he clutched a condom and an individual packet of lube.

Derek couldn’t help the snort that escaped him at Stiles’ antics. “You just carry those around with you?”

“No,” Stiles said, ducking his head and blushing. All of a sudden the mood in the room was much heavier. 

“I just, knew you were going to be playing today, and figured well, you probably wouldn’t see me, or would pretend you didn’t if you did but,” Stiles shrugged. “I live in hope.”

Derek’s heart clenched at the look on Stiles’ face. The thought that he had been the cause of such pain hurt even more.

“Hey, come up here.” He pulled and Stiles shifted up, his whole naked body rubbing against Derek’s. They kissed, and Derek swore he would make it up to Stiles, no matter how long it took. 

After a minute, Stiles bounced back, irrepressible energy restored. “Enough of that. Clearly I was right to be prepared. Possibly because I am a genius, and we should take advantage of my wisdom _now_. In one swift move, he tore open the packet and slid the condom down Derek’s cock. Derek shut his eyes and swore, it was the first time Stiles had actually touched him and if Stiles had taken any longer to put the condom on than he had, everything would have been over really quickly. 

When he felt like he could look at Stiles without coming on the spot, Derek opened his eyes to see Stiles balanced above him, rocking back and forth, one hand behind him with two slicked up fingers already buried in himself. 

“Wanted…you…to do… this.” Stiles let out a groan and added another finger. “Fuck. Didn’t wanna… wait… though. Couldn’t.” Derek couldn’t look away as Stiles pulled his fingers out. He hissed as Stiles used the remaining lube to slick Derek up before lining Derek up with his entrance and pressing down. 

He felt amazing. Hot and tight, Derek couldn’t breathe as Stiles relaxed down, pressing Derek’s cock deeper and deeper into him. Derek’s hands flew up to Stiles’ hips, fingernails pressing crescent moons into the pale flesh and fuck. Derek wanted to lick that skin, wanted to catalogue all the new freckles he had never seen before today with his tongue, but later, later. 

Stiles was moving now, lifting up and whining as he dropped back down, his breath was coming in short fast pants. He was mumbling an endless litany of nonsense Derek could barely make out aside from the occasional “fuck” and “Derek”. Derek thrust up as best he could, letting his injured leg slide off the front edge of the sofa so he would not be tempted to use it.

Stiles braced his hands on Derek’s chest as he rode him. Derek tried to last, but it had been so long and it was _Stiles_ and Stiles was wonderful and panting and perfect. Derek reached out and grabbed Stiles’ cock, jacking him in time with his thrusts. It took only a few rough tugs and Stiles was wailing, climaxing for the second time. Ropes of come splashed across Derek’s abs. Stiles’ entire body clenched around Derek and that was it, he was gone. Pleasure slammed into Derek’s body and he shouted something that may have been Stiles’ name. Vision graying out at the edges, he felt Stiles collapse on top of him again, and the warmth of him sent another course of aftershocks chasing through Derek’s body. 

They lay there together a long time, just trying to catch their breaths. Derek pulled his arms around Stiles. He was tired, sweaty, dirty, in pain, and getting stickier by the minute, but Derek couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this happy. He nuzzled into Stiles’ hair, content to just enjoy the moment.

Unsurprisingly, it was Stiles who finally broke the silence.

“So,” Stiles asked. “Would this be a bad time to ask you to sign my rookie card?” 

Derek groaned and rolled on top of him. 

***


	4. Epilogue: For Love of the Game.

***

“Dude. This is freaking me out.”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek pulled a protein smoothie out of the refrigerator.

“No, seriously. It’s the eyes. It’s like they’re following me.” 

“Well,” Derek leaned down and kissed the top of Stiles’ head. He’d been growing his hair out recently. Derek liked it. It made him easier to…direct. “Maybe if you hadn’t bought twenty boxes, it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles looked up from his third bowl of cereal that morning. “How many people can say their boyfriend is on the Wheaties box? I’m gonna wallpaper the living room with these bad boys!”

Derek laughed. “C’mon. It’s time for my work out.”

Stiles leered, “I’ll give you a work out-- _in bed_.”

Derek groaned. At least it was better than the pitching/catching jokes. It had taken Stiles months to run out of those.

“Or hey,” Stiles continued, “maybe just a nice game of catch? Let you get some practice being _behind_ the ball.”

Derek sighed, apparently not.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who read and commented and kudos while this was still a WIP. Y'all are what kept me going. THANK YOU!
> 
>  
> 
> First chapter title stolen from Ernest Thayer's "Casey at the Bat" which you _need_ to read [ here ](http://www.baseball-almanac.com/poetry/po_case.shtml%20).
> 
> Second chapter title stolen from Tobias Wolff's "Bullet to the Brain" which you can read for free [ here ](https://netfiles.uiuc.edu/ro/www/LiteratureandMedicineInitiative/20080304/bullet.pdf%20). (It's one of the great American short stories and only four pages long, go on.) 
> 
> Epilogue title stolen from Michael Shaara's novel of the same name. I recommend the book-on-tape version for cross-country road trips. 
> 
> I generally post my fic on my Tumblr before I post it here, as well as the occasional musings and tidbits. So come by and say 'howdy'!


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